


No, I'M Driving!

by FreysGalli



Series: Last Responders [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: (things like broken arms and other medical emergencies), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Emergency Services, Alternate Universe - Firefighters, Alternate Universe - Medical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Last Responder AU, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Patient Injuries, Stressful Situations, Warnings for angst will be added per chapter, Warnings for shippy stuff will be added per chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 09:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6700036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreysGalli/pseuds/FreysGalli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Driving is ALWAYS stressful, but sometimes it's more entertaining when you have someone riding with you.</p><p>Assorted one shots that deal with the Reds and Blues driving various Emergency vehicles.</p><p>I'll post specific warnings for each chapter on the top! Especially the ones that are more graphic in nature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No, I'M Driving!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Simmons (driver), Grif (seat/passenger), Vic (dispatch), Sarge  
> Warnings: Grimmons is kinda there if you squint, some reckless driving from others, some SUGGESTED reckless driving
> 
> This takes place waaay before Donut joins up.

“No, Simmons. We are NOT listening to your ‘Bovine orchestra’ shit.” Grif thumps his head against the headrest. They always got into this stupid argument everytime Simmons drove. “Just leave the radio station going.”

“Uh, it’s ‘Bolivian orchestral mash-up,’” Simmons corrected. “Obviously you haven’t heard their good stuff. I just downloaded some new sample tracks! You’re really going to love it.”

“I’m probably not. Just don’t touch the radio!” Grif swats Simmons hand away from the little mp3 player-whatsit they kept in the truck. There was no way he was listening to Simmons’s orchestra whatever. It was god awful and impossible to sleep to...most of the time.

Simmons pouts in silence for a glorious minute before the chaos begins. “Don’t you find it strange that it always plays the same song every time we…”

_***DEEEEEE DOOOOOO*** _

Grif jumps. He always forgets how loud the radios were in the truck. “Please don’t be us. Please don’t be us. Please don’t be...” 

_***DOOOOOO DEEEEEE bee-de-dee-deee be-dee-deee deee-deee*** _

“Oh boy! I get to drive to a call!” Simmons turns to Grif with a huge grin across his face, and starts flipping switches to get the lights and siren going.

“Son of a bitch.” Grif shakes his head watching Simmons thin frame bouncing in his seat like a child.

“Engine 4,” Vic blares over the radio. “Respond to 359...wait, dude, does that say Boner Street? That’s AMAZ--Uh, oh. Okay nevermind. It’s _Bonner_ street, dudes, 359 _Bonner_ Street. So yeah. Got a, uh, call that something’s on fire there, dudes.”

“Wow,” Simmons groans, “way to be specific, Vic. Make the call, Grif.”

“Ugh do I have--”

“You’re riding shotgun!”

“So?”

“You have to make the call! I have to concentrate on the ROAD!”

“Uh, yo, dudes, do you copy, dudes?”

“Fine, fine. Don’t get your panties in twist.” Grif reaches over, grabs the engine’s radio, and glares at Simmons. “Engine 4 responding to 359 Bonner Street. All Blood Gulch Firemen respond to 359 Bonner Street apparently there’s something on fire there.”

The radio crackles to a booming voice, “Fitty-one, respondin to 359 Bonner Street. Can ya give me sumthin more specific, dirtbag?” Great. Not only do they have to deal with Vic running Dispatch, they get to deal with Sarge.

“No, Fifty-one, dispatch was that specific.” He tosses the radio on the dash. “There. Happy?”

Simmons rolls his eyes, “Thrilled.”

“10-4, dudes,” Vic called. “And hey, dudes, I, uh, I can only tell you what the callers give me, dude.”

“Whatever.” Grif puts one foot on the dash and starts loosening the laces on his boot. He never understood why he had to wear steel toed boots when out of turnouts. Granted, he never fully tied or tightened his boots, but it still took more time and effort than slipping off sneakers would.

“That better not be a muddy boot on the dash that I just cleaned this morning,” snipes Simmons.

Grif just flings his loose boot behind him, chips of dried mud trailing, before slinging his other foot on the dash where some orange dust remained.

“I don't know why you bother cleaning the cab. It's just going to get dirty again.” Once his other foot is freed and boot tossed, he grabs his turnout boots/pants bundle behind his seat and tugs them to the front of the cab. 

He maneuvers his feet into his boots, and shimmies into his turnout pants as much as possible while staying buckled to his seat. 

“Just wait until we get to the scene,” says Simmons.

Grif harrumphs. However he noticed something strange. “Why are we stopping?”

“Because it’s a red light,” Simmons states simply.

Grif turns and at stares at Simmons, “Simmons, we’re in a fucking FIRE TRUCK!” Grif grabs a handle and pulls it. A loud blaring horn sounds out, drowning everything but the radios in the truck. Grif decides the horn is a GREAT way to add emphasis: “WE * _ **HONK***_ HAVE THIS FUCKING * _ **HONK***_ THING * _ **HOOOOOONK***_! We’re responding to an EMERGENCY! We’re supposed to get there FAST! You don't have to come to a complete stop!”

“We still have to be cautious!” Simmons presses the gas as soon as the light turns green.

Grif just takes a deep breath. “The place will be burned to the GROUND by the time we get there with your grandma driving!”

“I don’t want to hit anyone, Grif! And the Standard Operating Procedures say that we don’t necessarily have right-of-way just because--”

“First off, fuck the S.O.P.s. No one but you reads that shit, and two, FUCKING DRIVE FASTER!” Simmons wasn't even going around traffic. Traffic was going around him.

“I am! I’m going 5 over the speed limit! I’m going plenty fast.”

“No, that’s NOT going fast! People are PASSIN-- **SON OF A BITCH**!” A little, blue, sporty, fiberglass deathtrap swerves in front of them. Simmons screams, Grif hollers, the truck tilts right, the water in the tank sloshes around. The deathtrap continues to weave in and out of traffic ahead of them as Simmons desperately tries to avoid other vehicles while maintaining control of the truck. Grif just grabs whatever he can and hangs on for dear life, praying that the water in the tank doesn’t cause the truck to flip.

“SUCK IT YOU BLUE BASTARD!” Simmons shrill voice cuts above everything. Grif looks over to see Simmons gripping the steering wheel to the point his knuckles are white. “SEE, GRIF, if I had been going faster I would have run them over.”

“Ok, seriously? If you were going faster, THEY WOULDN’T HAVE PASSED US!” Grif grabs the horn handle and pulls it a few more times for emphasis since some drivers weren't getting out of the way.

“Well, ‘the driver shall never exceed a speed that is safe and prudent, based on road and weather conditions and other circumstances, including…’.”

“Oooh, no. You are NOT quoting the book at me, kiss ass!” Grif glares and points at Simmons. “And you are RUINING our response time records here! Besides--”

The radio crackled, “Fitty-one on scene. Investigative mode. Single story family home. Easy going smoke coming out of the Delta side window. 51 to 48.” 

Grif glares at Simmons, “Great. Sarge beat us to the scene.” Grif grabs the radio while Simmons stares angrily at the road. “48 here, go ahead 51.”

“Where's my engine?”

“We will get there when we, wait.” Grif lets go of the button on the radio. “Where the fuck are we going?” He just realized that they were two streets past where they were supposed to turn off.

“Uh, Donders street?”

Grif just stares and blinks at him, “Simmons, we’re supposed to go to Bonners. BUH-OHN-NERs street! Not Donders!”

“Dammit, Grif!” Simmons steers the truck to prepare for a U-turn at the next light. “It’s hard to hear when Vic’s on the radios! His voice gets all blown out and shit. He never sets to the right frequency. He’s always, ALWAYS a few decimals off which leads to crackling, white noise, and-”

“The point Simmons!” 

“It sounded like he said Donders!” Simmons checks the intersection as they pull up to it. Grif reaches up to pull the horn for a few quick blasts, and, MUCH to Grif’s relief, Simmons doesn’t pull to a complete stop before turning. After completing the turn Simmons continues, “Plus, YOU’RE supposed to help me navigate! If you just waited to put your fucking turn-”

“Oh, don’t you give me that crap. It just sounds like you’re trying to cover your ass. You can navigate just fine without me babysitting you. You’re a big boy.”

Simmons, face matching the color of the engine, doesn’t even look away from the road to flip Grif off. “Fuck. You.” 

Simmons does start to drive a little faster. Cars are no longer passing them and are getting out of the way thanks to Grif aiding in pulling on the horn. When they start to turn onto Bonner Street, Grif tells Simmons where the hydrant is. When they drive past the house, they see Sarge in full turnouts, making a perimeter around the house checking for any additional smoke or signs of the fire spreading. The window had some gray smoke slowly flowing out. Probably just a small kitchen fire.

Grif picks up his radio, “Engine 4 on scene and getting water supply. 48 on scene.”

Simmons pulls up near the hydrant and waits. 

After a couple of seconds he looks at Grif, “What are you waiting on, jack ass? Go catch the hydrant!”

“Oh right. I'm used to you doing this shit.” He unbuckles, puts his suspenders in place, grabs his jacket and helmet, and plops out of the truck. When he goes to slam the door he catches a glance of Simmons: elbows on the steering wheel, head leaned into his hands, and just lightly shaking his head back and forth.

Grif grins. He would give the kiss ass hell later. Simmons didn’t do TOO bad for his first emergency call. Honestly how he handled the truck after that blue deathtrap swerved in front of the truck showed that he was capable. He just needs to learn to not drive like a grandma.

\----- 

After they cleared up the small kitchen fire and drove the truck back to the station, Simmons immediately starts doing all the truck and hose maintenance and cleanup. Grif helps drain one section of hose, but doesn’t bother rolling it back up...or help with any of the remaining hose. Instead he pretends to fiddle with the air tanks for a while and eventually wanders to the break room. He manages to get into a recliner before Simmons starts yelling at him. 

“Hey asshole! Help me load this hose to the drying rack!” Simmons yells from the truck bay.

“Nah, that’s your job since you drove,” Grif yells back. Cleanup sucks, and he was going to have as little to do with it as possible. He was going to sit here and enjoy shitty day time tv.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Grif hears Simmons stomping down the hall. “Every time you’ve drove, I always end up doing the clean up work! The least you can do is help me just LOAD the fucking hose. I’ve already drained and scrubbed it. They just need to go on the dry rack!”

“If that’s all you got left why don’t you do that instead of coming in here and bitching at me about it?” Grif starts flipping through channels. Soap Opera. Jerry. Price is Right. Infomercial. Another Soap. A very annoyed, sweaty gross Simmons standing in front of the tv. Great.

Simmons rubs a hand through his hair, making it stand up in way that Grif couldn’t possibly take Simmons seriously...not that he ever did anyway.

“I’m tired. I just drained and cleaned over 300 feet of hose BY MYSELF because SOME people won’t help and OTHERS don’t know proper proce--”

***BAM!***

Grif jumps in his seat, and Simmons whips around to see Sarge slam a door open and storm into the common room, “Now, I wanna know why it took almost 10 minutes for my engine to show up to the scene when it shoulda been 5!”

Fucking christ. Could a guy not get a little bit of relaxation in after a call?

“W-well, sir, I, um, you see,” Simmons stammers. Grif looks over to see Simmons practically wilting under Sarge’s pissed off gaze. “I-I haven’t driven to a c-call--”

“Spit it out, Simmons.”

“Y-yes, sir, w-well I drove, sir, and I haven’t, um, actually driven to a call before, and I know th-that call times are important, but--”

Fuck. This was too painful to watch. Grif sits up and sighs, “Look, we were on the other side of town, ok? We were grabbing lunch at that new diner place that the Blues keep talking about.” Simmons looks at Grif in complete disbelief. “Simmons drove to the scene, and was probably a little slow, but, hey, that probably only added a minute.” 

“Is that true Simmons?” Sarge asks.

“Um, yes sir?” Simmons shakes his head slightly. Jesus, here Grif was TRYING to be helpful and Simmons was blowing it--

“I’ve told ya’ll to not talk to those dirty Blues!” Sarge yells. “They’re plotting to ruin our response times to convince City Hall to cut our funding and give it to them!”

Right, what was Grif even worried about, again? Just mention the Blues and Sarge is successfully diverted.

Sarge just continues into a tirade that Grif quickly zones out of after the first ‘Sorry, sir, won’t happen again, sir’ from Simmons. He’s heard enough of Sarge’s rants about the damn, dirty, Blue EMTs (who were honestly pretty cool dudes), and has heard Simmons kiss Sarge’s ass enough that Grif probably would have the whole thing memorized if he bothered to pay attention. Sarge eventually storms back to the Captain's office to start writing up reports, swearing revenge against the damn EMTs before slamming the door.

Grif glances at Simmons before leaning back and saying, “Dude, you SO owe me.”

“What?” Simmons stops staring at the door to the Captain’s office and turns to Grif. Simmons’ face was plastered with dumb amazement and his hair was still a ridiculous mess. 

“I covered your ass. We were only like 5 minutes from that scene, but your granny driving and detour added sometime. So, my terms are as follows: First, I just want to lay here and take a nap IN FUCKING PEACE! Take care of all the cleanup. Second, you have to take care of my station chores for the next week. Third, you gotta do the whole ‘I suck’ speech to the Blues.”

“You just lied to Sarge so you could take a nap, get out of chores, and get some petty revenge for a bet you lost?”

“You’re honestly surprised at any of that? Get to it, bitch.”

Simmons rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “I hate you.”

“Hate you, too.” Grif turns off the tv and leans back into the recliner getting ready to doze. 

He hears Simmons walking to the hallway entrance and stopping.

“Hey, Grif?”

Really? Simmons was supposed to be great at taking orders and he was failing the first one. Grif loudly sighs and turns his head to glare at Simmons, “What? I’m trying to nap here.”

“I...Thanks.” Simmons looks like he wants to say more, but he sprints down the hall back to the bay.

Grif rolls his eyes and grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!  
> So this is kinda my stepping stone into a bigger story for my Emergency Services/First Responder AU series. All of these are little side stories that are supposed to help me figure out how to write the characters a little better. I'm still outlining the main plot a bit? But this little side series mostly focuses on the Reds (firefighters) and Blues (EMTs/Paramedics). I may do Freelancers (Police) later, but it's currently not planned. 
> 
> Reds are Firefighters, Blues are EMTs/paramedics, Freelancers are Police. I know police are normally associated with Blue, but where I'm from EMTs/paras usually where blue and police wear black with gold accents. ::shrugs::
> 
> If you notice any errors, wanna critique, or whatever feel free to leave it in the comments or message me on piratessin on tumblr!


End file.
